


tell me something good

by mwestbelle



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:35:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: "social phobia" for hc_bingo</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me something good

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings:** depictions of social anxiety (pov of the socially phobic), unbeta'd
> 
> (Originally posted June 6, 2010.)

Frank holds his breath for twenty seconds, fingertips resting on the doorknob, before he can open the door. He’s got his hood up, his skeleton gloves on, but he pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands anyway as soon as he’s outside. It’s like armor. He jams his twice-covered hands into his pockets and walks with his head down, looking at the cracks in the sidewalk while he breathes. _In. Out._ Passes the burned out streetlight, passing through shadow before reentering the sick orange illumination. _In. Out._. Dodges a pair of sneakers with bright new laces. He looks towards the curb until he’s sure he’s alone again on the sidewalk. The automatic doors whoosh and chime when they open for him, and he keeps his head down, hair falling in front of one eye. The corner store doesn’t have much of a selection, but it’s close and he knows when it’s empty, and that’s what matters.

He knows where everything is, so he can take his usual path through the store. Back to the refrigerators with liquor first, then up through the snack aisle, over to the cashier with an armload of groceries clutched to his chest. He dumps them on the counter and digs a few crumpled bills out of his pocket. He knows how much his weekly rations cost, and he drops the money on the counter, shoving his hand back into his pocket to wait for change.

“You having a party or something?”

Frank looks up, sharply, at the clerk. It isn’t the usual, a bored man in his 40s who doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t make small talk. This guy is probably Frank’s age, with messy dark hair and a wide open smile. He makes Frank’s fingers twitch. Frank looks back down at his groceries (three bags of cheetos, two of fruit snacks, Oreos, pack of ramen, twelve-pack) and doesn’t answer. The clerk seems to get it; the scanner comes to life, beeping and the register buzzing while it prints a receipt. Frank watches the counter, watches a pale hand take his money and then hold out the change. Frank blinks at it, then clenches one hand into a fist. “Counter.”

“Dude, come on. You can take it from me.”

Frank shudders and looks up at him. “Put it on the fucking counter, dipshit.” There’s venom in every word, though it isn’t really for the clerk. It works, he flushes, angry or embarrassed, Frank can never tell, could never tell, and drops the money. Frank picks it up as a fistful, shoving it into his pocket and grabbing the bag and the case.

“Have a nice night,” the clerk calls after him, and Frank just ducks further into his hood, hunching his shoulders up around his ears, feeling like he might throw up. He makes it home and once he’s got the door closed, he can breathe again. He pulls off his gloves and pushes his hood back, running a hand over his hair. The groceries go in the kitchen, and he takes the hoodie off. It smells like other people, and he doesn’t like to wear it inside the house. This is where he’s safe.

Frank’s even worse the next week. He doesn’t want to see that clerk again, and he ends up wearing a long sleeve shirt down over his hands under his hoodie, and jams a hat down over his ears. But it’s the older guy again, silent and fast like it ought to be. Frank wonders briefly if he scared the younger clerk off.

The weather is starting to get colder, especially at night when he goes out, and his hunched shoulders are partially against the chill. He’s almost back to his apartment when he smells smoke and looks up a little. There’s a guy leaning against the front of his building, the end of his cigarette burning bright in the dark. Frank used to smoke, it made him feel calmer, but then they put them behind the counter. He’s grateful, a little, because when he had a cigarette in hand, people seemed to think they could talk to him. Ask him for a light, or to bum a smoke. That counteracted any feeling of calm. But the smell of smoke makes his mouth dry out a little, so he has to lick his lips.

He steels himself for a moment, shoving his hands deeper in his pocket, and puts his head back down, like a battering ram, so he can get safely back inside. He’s so close.

“Oh, hey. It’s you.” Frank freezes. He doesn’t know what else to do, and he bites hard on the inside of his cheek. It’s the clerk. The guy from the store, and he’s here and he’s talking and he expects so much. He expects Frank to answer, to smile, to carry on a conversation, and he can’t _do_ that.

He tries to push by, but the clerk stubs out his cigarette and shifts so he’s partially blocking the door. “Remember me? You came into the store last week.”

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Frank mumbles, trying not to choke on his words. He feels like he’s baking, sweating through all his layers.

“Look, I don’t know what I did, but—“

“Just fuck off, okay?” Frank flinches away from him when the clerk moves forward. “Fucking. Get out of my fucking doorway.”

The clerk just folds his arms across his chest. “It’s my doorway too.”

Of course, because Frank had finally found a building where he could just lock the door and be _alone_ with no neighbors coming by with questions and invitations, no broken plumbing that has landlords and repairmen tromping through his space for days, people who watch the numbers in the elevator and don’t try to make conversation. He felt safe here, but now it’s all ruined.

“I’m just.” The clerk pauses and then sticks his hand out. “I’m Gerard.”

Frank shakes his head, gnawing on the inside his cheek, trying not to hit him or cry. He’s done both before, and they both suck. He just shakes his head, until he’s dizzy, and the clerk backs away from the door. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

Frank doesn’t wait. He pushes past, shoulder bumping against the clerk’s, and hurries down the hallway, up the stairs. He needs the time to make himself breathe again, and once he’s inside his apartment, he just drops his groceries and then slides down to join them on the floor. He clutches at his knees and breathes, first quick and desperate, then slower once he’s feeling better. He pulls one of his bags of fruit snacks and opens it. They’re strawberry, and the action of chewing is slow, rhythmic, and helps him calm down. He doesn’t have to move. The clerk doesn’t even know where he lives, so as long as he avoids him it would be fine. Frank has a lot of practice at avoiding.

But this clerk is fucking persistent, apparently, because he’s knocking on Frank’s door the next day. Frank doesn’t answer, of course, just glares at him through the peephole and goes back to hole up in his bedroom with his Cheetos. He’s back again the next day, and then later that same day.

“I know you’re in here,” he calls through the door, and Frank turns the TV up louder. “Look, I just want. I want to talk.” Frank closes his eyes and tries to tune him out. “I know how you feel, okay?” Frank snorts to himself, but then the clerk keeps going. “It makes you sick, doesn’t it? Going out there. Talking to people. Like you can’t breathe.”

Frank takes a deep breath, and gets up off the couch. He goes over to the door, and opens it, before he can stop himself. The chain is still on, so it barely opens. The clerk looks almost surprised, but he smiles. Frank doesn’t know how to feel. He’s inside, so he should be safe, but there’s someone right here. He knows this guy wants so much that he just can’t give.

“Hi.” The clerk licks his lips. “I’m Gerard. Remember?” Frank nods, once, biting the inside of his lip. “Can I. Would you let me in?” Frank shakes his head, too fast, and the clerk—Gerard—nods. “No. Hey, it’s okay. I get it.”

“Like fuck you do,” Frank mumbles, before he can stop himself. Gerard doesn’t seem too surprised.

“I do. And I don’t expect anything from you.” Frank’s stomach lurches. He can’t believe that, but Gerard is just smiling. “I can go, if you want. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Go,” Frank says, immediately, and slams the door shut. It makes him feel better, and then it makes him feel cold. He doesn’t realize until he’s back on the couch that he didn’t tell Gerard not to come back tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a bad day, and Frank can’t open the door. But Gerard doesn’t ask him to. He sits outside—Frank looks out the peephole and checks—and just sits there. He doesn’t even make Frank talk.

The next day is a little better, and Frank opens the door again, still with the chain on. Gerard tells him about what he did during the day, and Frank just leans against the wall and listens. When he’s done, Gerard just smiles and ambles off down the hall. Frank watches him go, then closes the door, locking it again.

Gerard keeps coming back. On shopping day, he comes with a bag of Frank’s groceries. “Ken said that’s what you usually get.” He sets it down, so Frank can pick it up himself and pick through it. There’s a bunch of bananas, and Frank looks up at him. Gerard smiles. “Fruit snacks aren’t real fruit, you know. They don’t count.”

A few days later, Frank takes the chain off the door. Gerard doesn’t try to come in, and Frank sits on the inside, the change of carpeting like a moat between them. Frank doesn’t have to talk, though he sometimes laughs. Especially when Gerard slips scrap paper towards their moat and Frank pulls it across, finding caricatures of people who come into the store, and little cartoony monsters. Then, one day, Frank unfolds the paper to find himself. It’s undoubtedly him, with skeleton gloves, half-buried inside a hoodie. At first glance he looks surly, which Frank definitely knows is true, but when he looks closer, he looks…sad. Frank looks back up at Gerard, frowning a little. Gerard’s flushing, shy like Frank has never seen him.

Frank looks back at the paper, resisting the urge to press his thumb against his little downturned mouth. “What the fuck is this shit?”

“That’s how I knew,” Gerard says, quietly, after a long moment. “You sound angry, but you’re not. Not really. You want to scare people off.”

Frank flushes, dark and embarrassed. He moves the shut the door, and Gerard fumbles something more out of his pocket. It’s small, white, and he sets it down. Frank picks it up; it’s a business card. **Joan M. Walters, MD**

“She’s really nice.” Gerard is licking his lips, like he’s the one who should be scared. “You don’t have to do anything. I wouldn’t…I’d never ask you to. But I know how much it sucks to be stuck.”

Frank creases the card when he closes his fist around it and scoots back enough to close the door. He stands up, slides the chain in place, then goes back to bed. Gerard keeps coming back, but Frank doesn’t open the door for him. He just keeps the TV louder and louder, and eventually he doesn’t hear the knocks. Gerard stops coming.

It takes a long time for him to work up the courage. Really, it’s not courage at all. He gets too tired. Too tired for suiting up to leave his apartment, tired of talking to himself, tired of fucking Cheetos. He’s so tired.

*

“She is nice,” Frank says, forcing himself to keep his chin tilted up, his eyes open, voice clear. Gerard looks up, and the way his eyes get big and then crinkle at the edge when he smiles makes Frank feel like it was worth it.

“Yeah?” Gerard leans forward on the counter, still smiling. “You, uh. You changed your schedule.”

“I asked.” Frank licks his lips, and he hasn’t stammered for weeks, not even on normal words, but he still feels safer with shorter phrases. He needs to work on that. “About you. You changed too.”

“Oh, yeah. This is my usual shift. I was just covering that…uh, a few nights.” Gerard pauses for a moment, then his smile brightens. “You did? Good for you.”

Frank nods. He doesn’t have to mention that he spent nearly forty minutes in the store, walking through the aisles, before he convinced himself to do it. What matters is that he did, that’s what Dr. Walters says. That reminds him. “She’s proud of you.” He flinches, because he doesn’t make any _sense_ , but Gerard laughs.

“Really? Thanks. She…she helped me a lot. I’m glad she could help you.” Frank is glad too. He doesn’t have gloves, or his hood up, and he’s not even sweating. He’s smiling. He doesn’t remember the last time he smiled so much. And Gerard is smiling back. “Do you want to hang out tonight?”

His stomach drops, instinctively, but he knows that Gerard is different. He won’t be pissed if Frank says no, he’ll let Frank leave and never make him feel guilty about it, let him curl up into a ball with his pillows over his head and Gerard knows what that’s like. He doesn’t expect anything from him.

“Yeah.” Frank nods, just once, but his smile gets bigger. “I’d like that.”


End file.
